The Tale of Jefferson Watts
by JenF
Summary: Once upon a time I wrote a story that got rather out of hand. Some of you may have read it. It was called Six Days. This is the back story to that one but both stories stand on their own merits. Hurt Dean/Hurt Sam/Daddy Bear John. Weechester story.
1. Chapter 1

******Title:** The Tale of Jefferson Watts  
**Author**: JenF  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Winchester family, their property, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine.  
A/N: Once upon a time I wrote a fairly epic story (Six Days). This is the backstory to that. Both stories can be read independently of each other though. As with all my stories, this is unbeta'd so any and all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point them out.  


* * *

Sam's swinging his legs on the wall, head buried in yet another book, waiting for John to come pick him up. He's a little frustrated that Dad doesn't trust him to walk home alone yet. He's fifteen, for god's sake, and none of his classmates get picked up at the end of the day. And yes, he's heard the speech, he knows Dad does it for his own safety, that there are things out there waiting just for him. He thinks Dad's being over protective, over dramatic, and they've argued the point till they're both blue in the face and Dean has long since walked out the door.

So he sits quietly and waits, reading up on weather spirits because that's what Dad has sent Dean after. And how pissed is Sam at that? Dean's gone off on some wild goose chase at Dad's behest because he would never think to question their father's orders. But Sam knows he won't find anything except maybe a severe cold and soggy underwear. It's just a bad spell of weather. He's checked the weather reports going back several decades and, as far as he can tell, it's normal for this time of year. Okay, so maybe the rain storms are a little more monsoon-like than usual but it hardly qualifies as supernatural activity in his book.

He watches his classmates filter out into the autumn afternoon and sighs. Not only does Dad not allow him to make his own way home, he's never there on time either. Sam thinks he might have been on time last Thursday but other than that? Nope, not once this whole semester. Dad never seems to rush when it comes to his youngest son.

Which is why Sam is worried the minute he sees the Impala flying around the corner and Dad flinging the door open before he's even come to a complete standstill.

"Get in, Sam," he barks.

Sam would resent that tone of voice, the constant orders, the expectation of complete, unquestioning obedience, but he's seen the look on Dad's face and knows, _just knows_, instantly something's wrong. He scrambles into the car, casting a glance to the back to check if Dean is lying there, bleeding out. But it's empty and Dad has already engaged the gears and pulled away from the kerb. He looks sideways at his father, takes in the pale face and the pronounced worry lines around his eyes and his stomach flips, heart beating double time.

"Dad?" he asks, not caring how small and scared his voice sounds. "Where's Dean?"

But there is no answer forthcoming. Just an increase in speed and some muttered cursing Sam can't quite make out. It takes Sam several minutes to control the panic rising in his gut enough to push the issue again.

This time though Dad turns his head just far enough to get a good look at his youngest. Sam stares at him, as if he could pull the truth from him by sheer will power. As he watches, his father seems to wilt before his eyes and Sam knows the news isn't good.

"He's at the motel," Dad tells him and turns his attention back to the road. Sam's no fool though and he waits, silently, for the rest of that statement. "He's fine, Sam."

If the situation weren't so dire, Sam would laugh but he can suddenly see the years so clearly on his dad's face and he doesn't remember him ever looking so old, older than his years. There's only one thing that could have put that look there and Sam's blood turns to ice.

"Fine?" he repeats, disbelievingly.

"That's what I said," Dad snaps, and that's the end of the conversation.

* * *

By the time they reach the motel, Sam is frantic to get to his brother. Dad's definition of 'fine' is so far off the norm he can't help thinking Dean is seriously hurt, if not worse. He's tried telling himself if things were that bad they would be heading to the nearest hospital, not back to the motel.

He's out of the car before John's even turned the engine off and at the door, impatiently jiggling his leg up and down subconsciously. It takes a few long seconds before he realises Dad's still sitting in the car, hands clenched round the wheel so tightly his knuckles have turned white. It strikes him suddenly there's something wrong with this scenario. Very wrong.

Dad should have been at the door before him, should be inside by now tending to his injured son. The fact he isn't sets alarm bells ringing in Sam's head. He's been assuming Dean's hurt, badly. But if that were the case, why isn't Dad in more of a rush? Why aren't they in there already, first aid kit in hand?

In those few seconds it takes for John to finally uncurl his fingers from the wheel, Sam has thousand different thoughts running through his head, all concerning Dean. He'd know if his brother were dead, Dad wouldn't have said he's fine. Would he? So maybe he's not hurt. Maybe it's something else. Maybe Dean has just done something monumentally stupid which has pissed Dad off. It wouldn't be the first time; he seems to revel in causing mayhem wherever he goes. He hit sixteen and decided staying under the radar wasn't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes the girl seems to be worth the risk.

But looking at Dad's face again Sam decides whatever's going on with his brother isn't something as harmless as an ill construed fling. So his mind goes into overdrive. It's not death, it's not a girl. It's something worse.

And then Dad is next to him, door key in hand, gently pushing Sam to one side and slightly behind him, which elevates Sam's worry to a whole new level. Since when did he need protecting going into a room?

He tries to peer round his father's shoulder as the door swings open. He can't see anything out of place and as Dad steps over the threshold he catches a glimpse of Dean's foot hanging casually over the arm of the only easy chair in the room. Sam looks up at Dad, confused, but Dad just moves into the room, as stealthily as when he's hunting.

Sam can't take this anymore and pushes past his father, easily dodging the hand that reaches out to halt his progress. He's round in front of the chair in one swift, graceful move.

At first he can't understand what the fuss is about. Dean has one leg flung over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out in front of him. His eyes are closed and to all the world he looks as though he's in the midst of some soothing dream. Okay, so there are fresh bruises down one side of his face and a trail of blood from a newly split lip, but nothing that warrants the look on Dad's face. On closer inspection, Sam notices his brother's knuckles are red and scraped and his jeans are sporting a new rip just below the knee. It's obvious Dean's been in a fight but it looks like he won.

Sam turns to his father for answers to questions he's not asked, doesn't need to ask. Dad shrugs a little and rests a hand on Dean's forehead.

"I don't know, Sam," he admits, voice rough and frayed by unspoken fear. "He's been like this since he got back."

* * *

Afternoon turns into evening, turns into night and still Dean doesn't wake. Sam and Dad debate whether to move him to the bed or leave him where he is. In the end they decide the bed would be more comfortable and so Dad scoops him up as though he was a child and lays him down, covering him gently with the comforter. Sam watches in silence, wondering where this tenderness has come from, wondering if it's always been there, under the surface.

They take turns watching Dean, checking his temperature, prodding him tentatively in a vain attempt to elicit some sort of reaction. But there's nothing. To all intents and purposes Dean is dead to the world.

By the time morning comes Sam and Dad are both worried and tired, irritable with each other and more than a little bit scared. Dean shifts in his sleep from time to time but he's still not made a sound. Sam suggests a hospital visit but Dad refuses. There's nothing physically wrong with his son, he just needs time to recover, he argues. Sam protests there must be something wrong or he would be awake by now. If Dad won't go to the hospital, will he at least call someone? Someone they trust, like Pastor Jim. Finally Dad agrees but it feels like a hollow victory to Sam.

But Dean saves them the trouble at the last minute by opening his eyes. Sam and Dad are both at his side in an instant and Dean shrinks back into the pillows as far as he can. Sam and Dad exchange worried glances and Sam puts a hand out to his brother. He studies Dean as the older brother watches the hand warily, not moving from it, but not quite accepting it either. Sam looks to Dad for reassurance and receives a helpless shrug in reply.

After what seems an age, Sam lets his hand drop on Dean's shoulder and Dean's eyes fall closed again, his breathing slowing into a rhythmic rise and fall as he succumbs to sleep again. Sam is reluctant to leave him but he has questions, questions he put to the back of his mind while Dean was unconscious but which he can't ignore any longer. He knows there's a confrontation to be had with his father but he's not prepared to do it in front of Dean, sleeping or awake.

He runs his hand through his brother's hair softly as he gets up from the bed and, passing his father, he just nods his head towards the small kitchenette.

John sighs as he watches his younger, more rebellious son. He's not quite sure how to handle Sam. He's so very different to his brother. Dean never argued at that age, never questioned orders, never needed to be told something twice. Sam though, he's a completely new creature to John. The streak of defiance Sam displays on a more regular basis these days kicked in about three years ago.

He can't explain what happened to Dean, he doesn't know. They won't know until Dean is able to tell them for himself. John's been here before, waiting for Dean to break his self imposed silence but this time he doesn't think Dean is controlling it. He's worried there's something more to this. He's not really comfortable leaving his eldest alone, not when he doesn't know what happened to him, doesn't know what reaction there'll be when he finally comes back to them.

Sam is waiting for him though and he knows he needs to keep control of this situation. His youngest is too volatile, too hot tempered, although that temper only ever seems to be directed at him, never his older brother. John supposes he should be thankful for that, wonders if it's the same in every family, wonders if somewhere there are groups of fathers bemoaning their lot, worrying about their seemingly errant children.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, feeling like a ten year old being sent to the Principal, John casts one last look at Dean, sleeping peacefully now, and follows Sam. He ignores his youngest's glares and huffs and concentrates on boiling the kettle, making coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in, before turning to Sam.

"I can't answer your questions, Sam," he tells him, bluntly. "I don't have the answers for you. I wish I did." And he does.

"That's crap, Dad," Sam hisses, watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. "You sent him out there. You must have known what was out there, what did this to him."

John snorts a little at that. He sent his son on a recon mission. He didn't expect Dean to find anything, didn't expect him to return looking like a barroom brawl reject, didn't expect him to pass out the second he got through the door. But Sam isn't going to accept that explanation. John may not have a handle on Sam but he knows getting through to the boy is nigh on impossible at the best of times. Right now, it isn't even worth trying to be rational. He hates to quash Sam's spirit but there's a time and a place. Right?

"Sam," he barks, instantly regretting the volume but taking some comfort from the fact Dean slumbers on undisturbed. "I don't know what happened to your brother. I won't know until he can tell me. But when he can, I promise you we'll get whatever it was."

"Or whoever," Sam grunts. He's not stupid and he saw the marks on Dean's face. He's been living this life long enough to recognise bruises shaped like fists, to know when a bottom lip has been split by a backhander. He shakes his head in exasperation, sighs exaggeratedly and pushes past his father.

John's tired and had enough of Sam's attitude. Doesn't the kid realise he's got enough on his plate, that he doesn't need a teenage hormonal whirlwind right now? He can feel his temper fraying, splitting apart at the seams and Sam is pushing all the wrong buttons. Sam pushing past him is the last straw and, without even thinking about it, he's grabbed his son by the shoulder, spinning him round with a little too much force borne of exhaustion.

The look on Sam's face tells him he's overstepped the mark before he even realises what he's done. But it's too late for John now. The tension in the motel has been building for hours now, ever since Dean stumbled through the door yesterday afternoon. John clenches his fists by his side, an attempt to keep himself from making a bad situation worse. He doesn't hit his kids, it's not his style although, god help him, he's done it to both of them before and regretted it forever afterwards.

"Watch the attitude, son," he growls, warning lacing his voice.

If it were Dean, the tone would have been enough. But this is Sam. Sam who's worried half out of his mind about his brother and more than half pissed at Dad's cavalier attitude towards parenthood.

"Or what?" he hisses in response, eyes darting from John to Dean and back again. "What are you going to do about it, Dad?" It's a challenge he's issuing and even as the words spill from his lips he wonders what the hell he's doing. He knows he's pushing all the right buttons with Dad, or rather all the wrong buttons, but he can't seem to stop himself now. All the tension, worry, fear for Dean have to have an outlet and it seems Sam just found it.

But for once, John appears to be on the same level as Sam. He's pretty sure the boy didn't mean to challenge his authority, or at least not so openly. But it's been a hell of a day for all of them. Dean's condition takes priority. It has to take priority, and arguing with Sam isn't going to help him.

So he wills his glare to soften, forces his shoulders to slump slightly, commands his lungs to take a deep, relaxing breath and shakes his head slowly, almost sadly.

"Nothing, Sam," he admits. "I'm not going to do anything. You win," and he slides gracefully past his son, pocketing the keys to the Impala. Stopping at the door he turns back and nods in Dean's direction. "Keep an eye on him," he tells Sam needlessly, and then he's gone.

Sam stares stupidly at the now closed door, trying to process what just happened. There was an argument and Dad left. Is that what happened? But, no, there was no argument. There was the making of one, but it never developed. 'You win' Dad said, and left. And now Sam doesn't know what to think. Confusion settles down on his shoulder and whispers conflicting thoughts into his ear. _Dad doesn't care about Dean. Dad just gave in. He must be ill. Maybe there's something he's not telling you about your brother._

He shakes off the little devil sitting on his shoulder as Dean stirs and turns restlessly in his sleep. Thoughts of John flee from his mind and he's sitting on the edge of his brother's bed without realising he's moved. Dimly he registers the sound of Dad's car roaring out of the parking lot and wonders vaguely where he's going that could possibly be more important than Dean.

Dean, he reflects, looks better than when he first woke. He runs a hand gently through his brother's hair, half hoping to wake him, half hoping he'll stay asleep. He's reassured by the way Dean turns into his touch, however briefly, and for a couple of seconds his face smoothes out into a peaceful façade that makes Sam wonder what his brother was like as a child.

But the moment doesn't last and in the time it takes for Sam to move his hand from Dean's brow to the crest of his head, Dean is awake, eyes blinking blearily in the muted light creeping in through the drapes by the window. He turns his head left and right before settling his gaze on his brother. A wave of confusion sweeps over his features and he opens his mouth but all that escapes is a raspy croak.

Sam rests his hand on Dean's shoulder, gently telling him to stay put, and disappears into the kitchenette. Dean watches his back as he vanishes through the doorway which has clearly never seen an actual door. He's aware of a pounding headache and dry throat. He thinks there are aches and pains along his ribs, in the small of his back, up and down his shins and arms and he tries to remember what happened. Going by his injuries, he can only assume he was in a bar fight. The lack of clarity in his own mind worries him even more than the actual bruises and dried wounds on his hands.

Sam returns with a glass of lukewarm water and hands it over apologetically. "Best I can do," he mutters as Dean reaches out a surprisingly steady hand for it. He watches as his brother raises the glass to his lips and takes a tentative sip, wrinkling his nose in distaste as the tepid liquid dances on his tastebuds.

Dean hands the drink back to Sam, half untouched but Sam is happy with that. Dean lies back on what passes for a pillow and lets his eyes drift shut but his mind is whirring, ticking over what little he can remember of the last twenty-four hours. He feels the bed dip as his little brother perches carefully on the side of the mattress. He can hear Sam's gentle breathing and he feels the tenseness of his muscles.

"Hey, Sammy?" he mumbles, "What happened?"

Sam sighs and shakes his head, oblivious to the fact Dean still has his eyes shut and so the gesture is redundant. "We don't know," he admits. "We thought you would be able to tell us."

Dean takes a few minutes to process that information then picks up on the least relevant part of Sam's statement. "We? Who's we?" he asks.

"Me and Dad," Sam replies, quelling the spike of panic in his gut. Why wouldn't Dean remember both Dad and Sam are here? He reaches over and feels Dean's forehead, checking for a fever he doesn't think he'll find.

"Huh." Dean huffs, opening bleary eyes. "Dad?" and he pauses, looking round the room. "Where is he, then?"

And that, Sam thinks, is a very good question to which he doesn't have an answer.

"He'll be back soon," he tells Dean, trying to convince himself as much as Dean.

"He left again." It's a resigned statement and if Dean could sink any lower into the mattress, Sam thinks he might disappear altogether. He doesn't know how to respond to that.

"Get some rest, Dean," he says and raises himself off the bed.

"Only if you do," Dean says, watching Sam through lowered lashes. "You look like crap."

Sam smiles and nods, settling himself on the adjacent bed, intending to watch over Dean while he sleeps a little longer. But Dean always knows when Sam has reached his limit and within five minutes his breathing has evened out and he's sleeping peacefully, safe in the knowledge Dean is okay, if a little confused.


	2. Chapter 2

John sits in the Impala for longer than he meant to. His mind is filled with images of his son unconscious, no – sleeping, in the dingy motel room with Sam and him arguing. It's all they seem to do these days and it's going to lead to disaster one day. Who knows how much of that Dean heard, how much he took in? Sam was worried and scared and John gets that, he really does. But he's worried and scared too. And angry that Sam won't trust him to look out for his sons – both of them.

He knows he probably overreacted and that's why he's out here in the parking lot, sitting in the car wondering what to do. In his heart he wants to find whatever, or whoever, did this to his boy and beat the living crap out of it, or them. He wants Dean to wake up properly and be able to tell him exactly what happened yesterday. But he knows that could take a while and, contrary to popular opinion, he won't push his son until he's sure the time is right.

He lets his hands fall to his lap and his head drops back on the rest of the seat. He wonders if he'll find any answers on the ceiling of the Impala. He thinks back to the previous day when all had been well. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam he had no idea what had happened to Dean. He'd sent him to check out the local weather station situated in a virtually abandoned shack about six miles out of town. It should have taken him less than an hour to verify the recording equipment was there and functional. Even allowing for any stray meteorological staff on site, Dean should have easily been back by late morning.

When he hadn't returned, John had just smiled and assumed his eldest had found some local entertainment. What could possibly have posed a risk to him? Even if there'd been trouble, Dean can handle himself. Hell, John's taught both his kids to come out of a fight the winner.

He looks back at the motel room and tries to suppress the guilt flooding him. It's his job to look out for his boys, to ensure no harm comes to them – ever. But today he failed and, no matter what anyone thinks, he is, first and foremost, a father. But he's a hunter too and he's going to get to the bottom of this. Nothing hurts his boys and gets away with it.

He shakes his head and turns the key in the ignition. He's not leaving the boys but there's something he has to do. Something he has to set right.

The father in him wants to search and destroy but the hunter in him needs to find out the whats and whys of Dean's current condition and the hunter always wins. Has done ever since Mary was taken from him. Deep down he wonders if that's why it hurts so much every time his eldest comes home in a less than perfect state. He reminds John of his wife with every breath he takes and he couldn't protect her, couldn't save her so he's damned if anything is going to hurt Dean and live to tell the tale.

He presses his foot down on the gas, trying not to think of the scene he leaving behind in the motel room, and peels out on to the street, heading in the opposite direction Dean returned from.

It doesn't take long to reach his destination. The town is a little busier than he'd like but he's not here to do sightseeing. The crowds don't bother him so long as his contact is where he said he would be. He glances down at the scrap of paper on the passenger seat beside him to check the address, then looks up at the doorway with the corresponding number on it.

He climbs out of the car, feeling every one of his years deep in his bones. His spine protests with each step as he reaches the unimposing door. Peering at the plaque announcing the occupation of the resident, John pushes the buzzer, holding a finger there until a woman answers, clearly pissed off by the noise he's making.

"I'm here for Jefferson Watts," John states and the door swings open with terse instructions from the woman to make his way to the third floor.

The interior of the building doesn't disappoint. The staircase is wooden and filthy. John half expects to meet a cockroach or two on his way up and is mildly disappointed when they don't materialise.

He's about to beat a tattoo on the only door on the third floor when it opens outward, forcing him to take a surprised step back.

"John. It's been a long time," the man behind the door smiles, although the smile doesn't reach his eyes, the hunter notices.

"Jefferson," John acknowledges him in return, casting a long appraising glance over the length of the man. He's not changed much since their days in the forces but John wasn't really expecting any different.

"What can I do for you?" Jefferson ushers John into the sparsely furnished office. Sweeping papers off a dusty, rickety armchair, Jefferson smiles again. "Drink?" he asks, glass already in hand.

"No," John shakes his head. He'd love to but he doesn't have time for all this socialising. He's here for a reason and it's not to catch up on the good old days. "What do you know about Penguin Point?"

Jefferson pauses ever so briefly. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Not a lot," he admits. "It's a weather station up on Turner's Ridge just the other side of the highway. No one much uses it these days. As far as I know it's not operational any more. Old man Willard turned it into his personal hideout about fifteen years ago. Everyone stopped going up there and when he died it was left to fall apart." He stops and takes a swig of the whisky he's poured himself. He raises his glass to John. "You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm sure," John replies.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, each regarding the other with something approaching mistrust but not quite. John gets the feeling Jefferson knows more than he's letting on. The pause when he mentioned Penguin Point probably wasn't meant to be noticed but John's a hunter and he notices everything.

"What's this all about, Winchester?" Jefferson finally breaks the silence and John thinks the question is a little too eager.

"Probably nothing," he replies. "There's been reports of stuff going on up there. Thought the boys and I could look into it while we're in town."

"Yeah? How long you planning on being in town for?"

John shrugs. They'd only planned on being here till the end of the month but now? It could be longer. It could be less. Things suddenly seem more complicated to the older hunter.

"Cause I know some people could help out. Just say the word."

"We've got it covered." John stands up, suddenly unwilling to share any more with Watts. "Like I said, it's probably nothing."

Jefferson stands too, but John doesn't miss the way he hovers by his desk, blocking John's view of the papers lying abandoned there. But it doesn't matter. John's seen enough and he casts one last lingering glance at the other man.

Then he holds his hand out, epitome of friendliness, and shakes Jefferson's warmly.

"Sorry I couldn't help," Jefferson offers.

John shakes his head wryly. "Oh, you've been more helpful than you know," he counters, thinking of the paperwork he spotted and the reasons for it being on Jefferson's desk.

* * *

When Sam finally opens his eyes again his first thought is Dean. Turning his sleep laden eyes to his brother's bed the panic takes about five seconds to kick in. Dean's bed is empty and there's no sign of his brother.

He falls out of bed, grasping futilely at the sheets on the other bed, dismayed to find them cold to the touch, indicating wherever Dean is, he's been there some time. Just as the panic threatens to consume him totally a steaming mug of coffee lands on the bedside table and Dean's laughter echoes round the room.

"What'cha doing, Sammy?" he chuckles, watching as Sam scrabbles to hide his embarrassment at being caught out in a state of girly fretting.

"Um," he manages, groping for a feasible explanation and failing. Attack, he decides, is the best form of defence. "What are _you_ doing?" he returns. "You're supposed to be recovering." He knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth what a stupid thing that is to say to his brother.

Dean just shrugs though. "Nothing wrong with me," he confesses, feeling slightly bemused by it all himself. After all, he's just spent god knows how long asleep for no reason he can fathom and he still can't remember why.

"Well, that's just wrong," Sam argues. "You weren't okay. Not at all. So how come you're up and bright and doing your best Martha Stewart impression?"

Dean sighs and sags down on top of the rumpled covers. He nurses his own coffee, staring into its depths for so long Sam begins to wonder if maybe Dean hasn't fully recovered after all.

"I don't know, Sam," he finally answers. "I woke up and I felt great. Best I've felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Y'know?" and he's sounding a little helpless now. "My head's clear, I've got no aches or pains, I feel like I could run twenty miles and then go ten rounds with Dad and win." He stops and looks up at Sam who's hovering over him, face full of concerned confusion.

"That doesn't make any sense," Sam muses and sits down opposite Dean. "Where were you, Dean? What happened to you?"

But the only reply he gets is a shake of Dean's head and another shrug. He's about to push the issue, encouraged by the conviction of youth when they hear a key slide into the locked door. Both brothers are up and alert before the handle turns, Dean pushing his little brother slightly behind him as his fingers brush the handle of his gun at his waist.

John nods his approval when he sees the defensive stance his boys have adopted, grinning when they relax enough to acknowledge his presence, but not enough to be caught unawares if he turns out not to be who they think he is.

"Put your gun down, Dean," he commands. "It's me."

"Where have you been?" Sam demands, all teenage anger and disappointment.

John ignores his youngest's protests and moves to Dean. He places a hand on his shoulder and tilts his son's head from left to right, up and down, with the other. Dean succumbs to the examination without complaint, all the while trying to catch Sam's eye.

Sam's like a dog with a bone though and won't let it go. "Well?" he huffs. "What's so important you couldn't stay here?"

John lets his hand drop from Dean's face, other one staying place on his shoulder. He turns to Sam, wondering if the boy is ready for what he's found out. Sam stills under his heavy gaze and John studies his face, searching for some sign, some indication that Sam won't freak out on him. The moment lasts for longer than either of them is comfortable with but neither of them is prepared to look away first.

The standoff is broken by Dean squirming slightly under John's hand and John realises belatedly that his fingers have curled into his boy's shoulder a little too tightly. He releases his grip, patting Dean absently before moving away into the kitchen area. He ignores the confused look that passes between the brothers and waits for them to come to him. Because he knows they will.

"Dad?" Dean's hesitant. He knows his father has news and he's not sure he wants to hear it but knows he needs to, knows it's something important that they can't walk away from.

John scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling old, feeling the weight of responsibility on him and he wishes for the millionth time he had Mary here to help him.

"I went to see Jefferson Watts," he tells them, waiting for any sign they recognise the name. When nothing is forthcoming from either boy he continues, "He's my contact here. Knew him years back when we worked a case together. You must've been six or seven," he looks at Dean but there's still no acknowledgment coming so he leans back on the counter and takes a breath. "There was an unexplained string of attacks up in Omaha. It wasn't far from home and he needed help. It was quick and easy and he taught me a lot in those early days." He trails off, lost in old memories of harder times.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, still much happier to keep his own memories of those days locked behind a thousand iron doors. He watches John carefully, looking for some clue of what's to come in his father's face. But John is a good teacher and Dean's still learning from him. His face is harder to read than an upside down copy of the Declaration of Independence.

"I lost touch with him," John finally resumes his story. "I went my way, looking for the demon that killed your mother and he disappeared underground. He surfaced from time to time when he wanted something but he'd changed."

"Changed how?" Dean wonders.

"Not for the better," John admits bitterly. "He was one helluva hunter back then. Nobody knows what happened to him but about ten years ago he went crazy and vanished. Other hunters tried to find him, spread the word but there was nothing. It was like he never existed."

"So why is he back now?" Sam demands.

John shakes his head. "I don't know, Sam. But I think he's mixed up in this somehow." He steps forward to Dean and studies him earnestly. "Dean," he says, somberly, "do you remember anything? Anything at all?"

Dean tries not to squirm under his father's gaze and racks his brain. He feels Sam step up behind him. He shakes his head. "No, sir," he answers truthfully. "Nothing beyond arriving at the weather station."

John nods thoughtfully and turns away from his boys. He seeks out the coffee pot and steadily pours himself a cup. He takes his time over adding milk and sugar, stirring slowly, not touching the sides of the mug.

"Dad?" Sam's voice is uncharacteristically small and John winces slightly at the tone. It's the voice his youngest always uses when there's something wrong with Dean and this time, John's worried he's right. "What did you find out?"

There's no delaying this, John realises. His boys are far too astute for him. Two, three years ago he could have kept this from them. Well, from Sam anyway. But he can't unsee what was on Watt's desk and he can't pretend nothing happened to Dean up at Penguin Point.

Dean's standing to attention now and Sam's presence at his side is reassuring. He's unsettled by his father's reluctance to share and the way John's shoulders are set, back stiffening, is only serving to add to his worry. He scrubs a hand over his face, frowning when he disturbs what feels like a bruise on his cheekbone. He doesn't remember being hit in the face, but then he's just confessed he doesn't remember anything.

"Dad?" he asks, hating how small his voice sounds, wondering how bad his father's news is. He feels Sam's shoulder bump against his arm and realises he's trembling just a little bit. Somehow Sam always knows when he needs something extra and when John turns to face them again, Sam twists his fingers in the loose fabric of his shirt.

"Jefferson Watts had papers on his desk. Research papers," John starts and Dean relaxes slightly, deciding he can deal with paperwork. But then John has to go and ruin it all. "He was researching hunters. He was researching you, Dean."


	3. Chapter 3

It's cold out in the parking lot and the light is fading but Dean doesn't notice it. He leans back against the Impala and pulls his jacket closer to him. His gaze doesn't settle on anything, flitting back and forth from the motel room to the parking lot to the street and back to the motel room again. He's waiting for Sam to come and join him and so far he can't decide to whether to be worried or impressed by the restraint his little brother is showing.

He starts to count silently in his head, backwards from ten. He gets down to three before he hears the distinctive sound of Sam's footsteps coming towards him. He closes his eyes, readying himself for whatever Sam's going to throw at him.

But Sam doesn't say anything, just settles himself next to Dean on the Impala and hands Dean a mug of coffee. Dean accepts it with a noncommittal grunt and wraps his hands round it, watching the steam curling upwards till it's taken by the breeze and vanishes. They stay there in silence, watching the street lamps light up one by one, casting an orange glow over the motel.

Sam clears his throat and casts a sideways look at Dean. "It might not mean anything," he says, wondering who he's trying to convince the most and he's grateful that Dean doesn't scoff at him. Being the little brother has its advantages and Sam's playing on that fact now. He knows Dean is unsettled and agitated and trying desperately not to show it but Sam's been watching his older brother for fifteen years now and he knows all the signs.

And much as he hates this life, wants to get out of it, he won't abandon Dean. Not just yet. Maybe in a few years.

He listens to Dean's breathing, noting the enforced regularity, and he knows his brother is more than agitated – he's confused and a little bit scared. And that's something Dean doesn't do. Not in Sam's experience anyway and he finds that the most disturbing thing about this whole scene.

"Maybe," Dean agrees, but Sam can't hear any conviction in his statement. He studies the ground at their feet and nods slowly. He's not convinced either.

"Dad wants to go back up there," he tells Dean, alert for his brother's reaction. But Dean just sighs.

"I thought he would," he agrees. "It's what I would do." He pushes away from the Impala and straightens up. "When do we leave?"

Sam doesn't understand why he has to be the one to deliver the news. As far as he's concerned, Dad got them into this so he should be the one out here talking to Dean. He's heard the argument – Dad needs to get their supplies sorted, make sure they're taking the right weapons, they don't have time to argue about this – but it doesn't mean he has to agree with it.

"About ten minutes," Sam mutters, putting out an arm to stop Dean marching straight back to the room. Dean spins round and glares at the hand on his arm and raises his eyebrows quizzically at Sam. Who takes a deep breath and closes his eyes briefly. "You're not coming," he says, hating himself for being the one to put that look on his brother's face.

"What?" Dean queries, brow creasing in confusion. "Why?"

"Dad doesn't think it's safe up there for you," Sam replies bitterly. "Although why he thinks you'll be safe down here, on your own, is beyond me." And it really is.

But all Dean says is, "Huh," and leans back against the car. Which is almost worse than Dad insisting Dean stays behind in the first place. Sam doesn't think he'll ever understand this complete obedience Dean has when it comes to crappy orders but he also knows his brother won't ever change either.

"Huh?" he challenges, regardless. "Is that all you have to say?"

"What d'you want me to say?" Dean replies languidly. "It's not like he's going to change his mind. You know what he's like. He has his reasons for doing things, Sammy."

Sam's stunned by the reply and it takes a couple of seconds for him to process what Dean's saying.

"So, that's it then?" he snaps. "Dad says something and you just go along with it? Even though it's your safety we're talking about? Don't you care?"

"Sam," Dean sighs, "Dad knows what he's doing. You might not like it, you might not agree with it, but he's been doing this longer than you can remember. You have to trust the guy."

"No," Sam disagrees, pushing himself angrily off the Impala and stalking away from Dean. Spinning round to face his brother he spits, "I don't agree with him and I sure as hell don't trust him. I don't _understand_ why he has to leave you here. The safest place for you is with us. Why doesn't he see that?!"

"Because maybe he knows what's up there, Sammy," Dean reasons. "Maybe he knows that I'll be safer down here." He joins Sam and rests a hand on his shoulder. "And don't forget, I'm old enough to look after myself."

"Yeah, right," Sam snorts. "Tell me again what happened up there?"

Dean shakes his head, acknowledging that Sam has a point. But there's no point in fighting over this one. John's determined and Dean's not going to go up against him on this. And, to be honest, he's quite happy to stay put because for some reason, which he's not going to share with Sam yet, he's feeling remarkably tired. Considering he's spent most of the day, and previous night, sleeping he thinks this should worry him.

"Just leave it, Sam," he mutters and pushes past his brother, heading back to the room.

He's nearly there when the door opens and John appears on the threshold, weapons bag in one hand and his journal in the other. He nods at Dean and moves past him wordlessly. He knows Sam has told Dean their plan of action, or as much of it as he knows. Which isn't all of it because although he's a Winchester, Sam has a remarkably different outlook on hunting and his family loyalty lies completely with Dean, not his father. Not that John worries about back up when it's just him and Sam, but if push came to shove, he knows which way Sam would fly.

"Sam," he grunts, throwing his bag in the back seat of the car, "time to go." He doesn't look to see if Sam is obeying him. He doesn't need to. "Dean," he calls, backwards, "lock the door, lay the salt and keep your gun to hand. Don't answer the door or phone unless…"

"Dad," Dean whines. "I'm not a kid. I know what to do."

John smiles ruefully, feeling put in his place. "I know you do, son," he admits. "Just, be safe. Okay?"

Dean nods, the first real feeling of apprehension creeping through his gut as he watches his father and brother peel out of the parking lot in a cacophony of spinning wheels and hasty gear changes.

* * *

Penguin Point is a bleak place. The abandoned weather station sits on the edge of a clearing which John can't decide is manmade or natural. The door is hanging off its hinges, swinging gently in the light breeze that has picked up since father and son arrived ten minutes ago. John wonders if there's any significance in that but decides it's just his imagination getting the better of him.

He casts a sideways glance at Sam, taking in the sullen look on his youngest's face. He doesn't worry though – he can see Sam's eyes sliding over the landscape, looking for anomalies, checking for hidden dangers. John allows himself a brief moment of misplaced pride. For a child who doesn't want anything to do with this life, Sam's a natural whether he likes it or not.

Back to business, John gestures to the cabin silently, gratified when Sam nods once and follows him. What happens next takes both hunters by surprise and later, John's really not too sure how he allowed it to happen at all. Sam's young and relatively inexperienced, can't be blamed for not spotting the danger, but John? He's been at this game for so long he doesn't count in years any more, just monsters slain, demons banished, ghost vanquished. The only thing he can blame here is himself and doesn't that just suck?

Looking back John supposes he must have registered some sort of disturbance in the bushes because his gun is still in his hand, which is dangling uselessly by his side, knife protruding from his shoulder. Sam is on his back on the ground, a mixture of shock and surprise showing in his eyes and a thin trail of blood trickling down his forehead from where he's been hit by something. John thinks – hopes – it was a rock and nothing more sinister that's going to require bathing in holy water but his thoughts are becoming muddled and the pain radiating from his shoulder is beginning to make itself known.

"Dad?" Sam murmurs, voice slightly cracking and John can't blame the boy for being scared. "What's happening?"

John wishes he knew but just as he's about to make that particular admission to his youngest, the bushes part and Jefferson Watts saunters out, casual as you like, as though he's taking the mountain air on his doctor's orders.

He stops just by Sam's head and smiles at John, a cold, calculating smile that chills both Winchesters to the bone. He drops down and gently places a hand on Sam's head. John snarls and Sam tries to jerk away from the unwelcome touch but Watts has a unexpectedly strong grip on his hair.

"Oh John," he sighs, "you brought me the wrong one." He looks down at Sam again and fists his hand in the boy's jacket, hauling him upright and wrapping a strong arm around his chest, holding him tightly in front of him.

"Let him go," John growls, fury at their adversary and fear for his son threatening to tear him apart at the seams.

"Gladly," Watts concedes, "but not until I get the son I want." He waves a hand to the weather station. "Let's talk inside," he continues, "where we're out of this wind. So cold for the time of year, don't you think?"

John scowls at the banality of the statement and shuffles towards the cabin, not once taking his eyes off Watts and Sam. He's waiting for his chance, just one second of distraction so he can shoot the son of a bitch where he stands. But Watts knows the tricks. He keeps John in front him and his hostage and keeps Sam firmly in front of any vital organs.

Sam drags his feet as much as he dares and tries to give his Dad that opportunity but Watts isn't having any of it. He leans forward slightly till his mouth is almost brushing against Sam's ear and whispers softly, words only meant to be heard by Sam.

"You need to co-operate, Sammy, otherwise Dean's going to be mighty pissed off when he gets here."

Sam doesn't understand what he means but the implication that his brother is going to be hurt is loud and clear and no way on earth is Sam going to be the one responsible for that, directly or indirectly. So he picks his feet up a little higher and fixes his eyes, and his trust, on his father.


	4. Chapter 4

The inside of the weather station is as derelict as the outside and John has to step over scientific paraphernalia lying on the dusty floor. He catalogues every piece of discarded graph paper, compass, pencil and metal ruler as he steps confidently forward, wondering how he could use these items to help him and Sam get out of here.

But the opportunity doesn't arise. As soon as they're through the first door, Watts slides his arm up around Sam's neck and clears his throat dramatically.

"Take a seat, John," he invites, nodding towards a rickety wooden chair sitting by the wall. "It's stronger than it looks."

John hesitates, looking from the chair, to Watts, to Sam and back to Watts again. Who recognises the hesitation for what it is.

"Delaying won't help," he reassures the hunter, and to drive his point home, he tightens his hold on Sam. "I've got your boy here and I can snap his neck as soon as look at him. I'm going to get the other one too." He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. "Clock's a'ticking John," he smiles.

John scowls, eyes darkening with hatred and Sam's a little scared by it, but he sits in the chair, wound in his shoulder gently weeping blood and his fingers numb with the exertion of holding on to his gun. He grabs the chair and scrapes it towards him. He makes a great showing of sitting heavily in it, glaring at Watts, eyes softening with reassurance when they flicker over to Sam.

Watts lets his hold on Sam slacken slightly and Sam wonders if he's fast enough, strong enough, to pull free but then he catches his father's eye and John shakes his head so subtly Sam isn't sure it even happened. So instead he watches John shift uncomfortably in the chair, trying not to look at the sluggish trail of blood soaking through his father's jacket.

Watts must be watching too because he suddenly releases Sam and is across the room to where John is beginning to sweat – not from fear but from where the knife is still protruding angrily from his shoulder. Watts bends over him and rests his hand on the hilt of the weapon and Sam knows he should be using this opportunity to get away, make a run for it, but all he can do is watch, fascinated and terrified in equal measures.

"This must hurt, John," Watts comments, casually. "You'd be more comfortable if you dropped your gun."

John grunts as the added pressure on the knife sends shooting pains through his arm and although he really, really doesn't want to relinquish his hold on their only hope, he can't help but let the gun slip through his fingers, landing with an ominous thud on the floor.

Sam watches Watts give a satisfied little nod as he kicks the gun to the side of the room. He knows he really should be doing something right now. His father's trying to glare at their captor who has moved behind him, casually securing John's wrists with plastic ties. Sam feels forgotten and a little voice in the back of his head is telling him this is his chance, probably his only one, to run, to get the hell out of there but he's part of a family which doesn't abandon anyone.

Watts lifts his head up and casts a sideways look at the boy, smiling in a way that Sam's not totally comfortable with.

"How you doing there, Sammy?" he smirks. "Looking a bit twitchy, son. Maybe you should sit down too." He waves to another, equally rickety chair opposite his father.

Sam hesitates, looking from Watts to his father, unsure whether to do what he's told or seek an alternative option from John. John nods once and as Sam turns to the chair, he hears Watts laughing.

"You've trained him well, John. Have you done as good a job with the other one though? That's what I want to know." He straightens up and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone. "Let's give him a call, shall we? After all, it's not really a party till we're all here." He flips the phone open and Sam watches, fascinated, as his fingers fly across the number pad. Part of him wants to know how Watts knows his brother's number but mostly he just wants Dean not to pick up.

He's not prepared when Watts thrusts the phone at him. He really doesn't want to talk to Dean because he knows that whatever he says, Dean will know, Dean will come regardless. Watts, he thinks, is clever. He obviously realises that Dean would go through hell and high water to protect his family.

Watts raises his eyebrows and pushes the phone closer to Sam's face. "Talk to your brother, Sam," he orders. "Get him up here. He needs to be here."

Sam shakes his head. "No," he says, proud that he's managed to keep the tremble out of his voice. "You want him, you speak to him."

Watts laughs and turns briefly to John. "Not quite the pushover after all, is he?" and Sam wonders what his father has been saying about him. He doesn't have long to think about it though as Watts turns back to him, all humour and good nature gone. "This isn't a request," he growls, "and you don't have a choice. I will get your brother here, one way or another, and trust me, this is going to go much better if you talk to him. For his sake."

Sam throws a frantic look at his father but there's no reassurance to be had there. John looks as sick at the idea as Sam feels.

"Dad?" he asks, voice as small as he feels right now. "What do I do?"

"Talk to your brother, Sam. He'll know what to do." John hesitates, looks at Watts and takes a breath. "Tell Dean what he," and he nods at Watts, "tells you to."

Watts grins and Sam reluctantly takes the phone out of his hand. He glares at Watts and his father. Part of him knows there must be a reason for John to be acquiescing so readily but another part of him is silently fuming that his dad is going to willing put Dean into harm's way.

But John must have picked up on his son's internal struggle because he offers Sam a tiny smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It'll be okay, Sam. Dean will know what to do. He'll be fine."

* * *

The phone by the couch rings at least five or six times before Dean reaches it. He's not sure how long he's been asleep but he feels more alive than when he sat down to watch whatever trash was on TV. Looking at the caller display he frowns. It's not a number he recognises which is unusual – he doesn't give this number out very often, it's what he calls his bat phone, emergencies and family only.

He flips it open but says nothing, waiting for the caller to make the first move.

"Dee?"

"Sam? You okay?" Dean's instantly on full alert. Sam never calls him Dee any more. Hasn't since he was seven years old and recovering from a particularly nasty bout of tonsillitis.

"Um, yeah," and Sam's voice trails off into an uncertain silence.

Dean waits, heart pounding against his ribcage so hard he thinks it might jump out at any minute. He can hear the fear in his little brother's voice and he knows something is seriously wrong.

"We ran into a little trouble," Sam continues after a slight pause. Dean's only half listening to Sammy though, the blood pulsating through his head is making it hard to hear much other than his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. "Dad's hurt."

Dean's vision frays round the edges briefly as his imagination goes into overdrive. He pictures Dad lying, bleeding out on some dirty floor or suffering in silent agony on the wet forest ground. But as soon as his vision blurs, it snaps back into focus with the next words.

* * *

"There's a real party going on here, Dean," Watts taunts down the phone as he smirks at John, resting a proprietary hand on Sam's head. "We'd hate for you to miss the highlight." He pauses for dramatic effect. "You know where we are. Half an hour, Dean, then the fireworks start," and he snaps the phone shut.

"Do you really think my boy is stupid enough to come?" John snarls.

Watts smiles, amusement creeping into his voice. "Oh no, John," he agrees. "That boy's not stupid. But I'll tell you what he is." He lets his hand drop from Sam's head, pulling the young hunter's arms round the back of the chair until his position mirrors that of his father. "He's loyal, John. God knows why but he loves you enough to risk his own life." Watts tests the bonds around Sam's wrists then drops till his mouth is level with Sam's ear.

"What do you think, Sam?" he whispers. "Do you think he'll come?" He straightens up and takes a step back, watching Sam's face, amused by the conflicting emotions running across his captive's face – fear, fury and teenage contempt.

"I _know_ he'll come," Sam snaps. "And I think you'll regret it."


End file.
